Page 23 of I'll Be There
Breaking her.
If she never slept, then the memories stayed tucked deep into her brain, locked away, helpless to roam her waking thoughts and reduce her to the fetal position.
Three days.
She pressed a hand to her mouth. Conner’s kiss on the beach left an indelible touch. But more than the anticipation of her wedding night—an intimacy much different than the one foisted on her as a teenager—she relished the idea of the afterward, where she tucked herself into Conner’s embrace and truly, finally...slept.
The house strummed its own music at night—the hum of the furnace during the chilly months, the creaking when the wind rattled across her porch. Springtime brought the rush of the lake, ferocious on the shore nearby, and the patter of rain against the shingles. She’d hung a wind chime, and now it sent out a delicate melody into the steeped night.
Liza got up, treaded downstairs to the kitchen. The light from the fridge washed over her feet, freshly pedicured, as she spied the leftover fruit salad. She scooped out grapes, melon, and bananas into a bowl, then stood in the darkened kitchen, eating them one by one, replaying Conner’s face when he saw Jim Micah.
I miss him.His raw-edged words about his brother clung to her, thickened her throat. Maybe she’d helped, just a little, by sending that text to Jim Micah.
Please, Lord, heal him of this terrible wound.
She finished off the fruit, glanced at the clock. One a.m.
Her entire body buzzed with fatigue.
Outside, it had begun to rain, a soft patter on her roof. Liza grabbed her raincoat and slipped her bare feet into boots before unlocking the back door and flipping on the light. The glow pressed out through the rain, illuminating the path to her pottery shed. She flipped up the hood, ducked her head, and sprinted the distance to her workspace.
Track lighting ran the length of the ceiling, and tall shelves held her pottery in different stages of completion. Raw and drying to leather-hard, freshly fired but unglazed, glazed, painted, and finally glost-fired and finished for shipping.
Sadly, the finished shelf still seemed emaciated to her eyes. It’d taken six months for her arm to heal enough for her to function again at the wheel. A long time to delay her business.
She stored the clay body—she preferred earthenware—in bags on shelves near her throwing wheel.
On the other side of the shed stood her kilns, two electric stoves.
She walked over to the finished shelves, picked up a pitcher, part of her new collection. A black ribbon encircled the orange body with a white trail cutting through the black. Along the white streak she’d etched,I have come, that they mighthave life, and have it in the full.The verse for her “Abundant Life” line of pottery, based on John 10:10.
She’d thrown, glazed, and painted this pot before she’d been tracked down in the woods and mauled.
In fact, she hadn’t painted anything since that day—just thrown a few pots, trying to get her hands to feel right again.
She put the pitcher back and headed over to the bags, sealed tight to keep the clay fresh. When she opened a bag, a scent lifted, earthy, almost tinny, raked from the minerals pulled from creek beds and other sources that comprised the clay body.
She pressed her hand to the hard and grainy clay, the feel of it soothing and familiar.
Yes.
She shucked off her jacket, hung it on a hook near the door, and grabbed her apron.
Then she carried the bag over to her work table. Taking the wire knife, she sliced off a chunk.
She filled a bucket with water, then kneaded the clay until it formed into a large ball. Then, she brought the water and the ball over to her throwing wheel and sat on the stool, the wheel between her knees.
Centering the ball on the wheel, she took a sponge, dripped water over the clay, turned on the wheel and began to smooth the ball so that it rounded evenly on the table, running her hands over it to wet it and get a feel for the clay. Cool and thick, the clay turned from roughened earth to pliable putty.
She scooped more water from the bucket, her hands sopping, but warming to the texture of the clay as she pressed her thumb gently into the middle, forming a hole.
The clay moved under her prodding, and she pressed her fingers into the side with one hand, the other cupping the form as she pulled the bowl open.
Above, the rain continued to shower her roof, white noise that rose and fell with the wind. Through the undulation, the chimes on the porch plinked out a light melody, a random accompaniment to her creation.
Silently she worked, dipping a sponge into the water, pressing it against the inner chamber of the pot, slowing her breathing as the pot took form.
The water and clay wedged under her fingertips—she kept her nails short for this reason—and coated her hands. She’d come out in an old T-shirt and pajama pants, but despite the chill of the storm, heat suffused her body.
